Million Dollar Baby
by Carol
Summary: Dean is barely holding it together after the events of Abandon All Hope. To get Dean back on the horse, Sam finds what he thinks is a simple hunt with a hefty reward at the end of it. Unfortunately, the case may end up costing Dean his life.
1. Teaser

**Million Dollar Baby**

By Carol M.

**Summary: ** Two weeks after the events of Abandon All Hope and Dean is barely holding it together. In

an effort to get his brother back on the horse, Sam finds what he thinks is a simple hunt with a hefty

reward at the end of it. Unfortunately, taking the case could be a deadly mistake that may cost Dean his

life.

**Spoilers: **Everything up to Abandon All Hope

**Disclaimers: **Don't own them, only love them

**Working on this little ditty got me through the hellatus. Counting the hours til Thursday! Hope you **

**enjoy!**

**Teaser**

The feeling of peaceful unawareness lasted about five seconds. Five seconds where everything was right with the world. Five seconds where he didn't have to put up a fight. Five seconds where he didn't have to feel guilt. Five seconds where his gut wasn't seized up in fear and anticipation. Five seconds where he didn't feel like a failure. Five seconds where he didn't have to compulsively self medicate his brain with any and all stimulus in order to forget. Dean Winchester got only five seconds of peace each day.

Those five seconds lie in between the moment he first awoke from sleep and the moment his brain snapped to attention and flooded his heart and soul with a toxic sludge of self torture that left him so miserable and defeated he didn't want to get out of bed. He'd rather go back to sleep and have the nightmares, no matter how bad they were. They couldn't compare to the hopeless void that had become his life.

It had been two weeks since the Lucifer/Colt debacle. Dean had spent all fourteen of those nights drunk and in the arms of a willing woman who just knew she had the cure to mend his tortured soul. All fourteen had. So had the booze. For a little while. The problem was eventually the girl was gone and the buzz wore off, and then reality would hit his brain like a chainsaw, hacking through his mind until it was bleeding painfully. He was powerless to staunch the flow, so he took another drink and picked up another girl, hoping the anesthetic would eventually hold the cure. Or so he kept telling himself.

He and Sam had been wandering around aimlessly ever since Carthage and had found squat to hunt. Apparently, now that Lucifer was the new big bad wolf, all the little dogs were staying in their cages. And that suited Dean just fine. He didn't want to hunt. He didn't want to deal with any of it anymore. He couldn't face it. He wanted to disappear and start a new life as somebody else. Somebody that didn't have the guilt of destroying the world and the responsibility of putting it back together resting on their shoulders.

And in those five seconds of ignorant bliss, he could pretend like he really was someone else.

He rolled over listlessly on the scratchy sheets of his bed in the random motel room he and Sam had crashed the past two nights, trying to get away from the morning light that stabbed at his tired, hung over eyes. He rested his forehead against the crappy pillow, trying to ignore the crumb or whatever the hell it was burrowing itself into his right elbow. He could smell coffee and donuts wafting through the room, the scent causing his stomach to simultaneously roll and growl. He could hear the clickety clack of Sam typing on his laptop, the hyperactive rhythm his brother maintained never ceasing to amaze him. Just as that thought left his head, an image of Lucifer popped into his mind and a feeling of dread crept into his gut, drying out his throat with its intensity. His five seconds were up.

It hit him all at once. Flashes of varying emotion…grief, guilt, love, hate, failure, fear, weakness, loneliness…flooded through him, swirling his mind until it was cloaked in hopeless misery. He was helpless against the onslaught, feeling as if his conscious mind was being shot at round after round after round by a Tommy gun. He would give anything not to have to think, to not have to confront these evil demons of his mind. He moaned softly, his body desperate for some kind of physical release from the deluge.

"Dean, you awake, man?" said Sam.

Dean's face flushed hot, embarrassment and shame flying through him as he realized Sam had heard his little pity party. He took a steadying breath and put on his mask of strength and emotional invincibility as he rolled over to face his brother. "I am now," he said, his voice rough, his mouth tasting like someone had taken a crap in it.

Sam turned away from the table he was sitting at and regarded his brother with worry. "How long you gonna keep this up? It's been weeks, Dean."

Dean waved him off as he dizzily got out of bed and reached for one of the coffees. "It's the end of the world as we know it, Sammy. And I feel fine."

Sam paused for a moment as if he were contemplating a rebuttal to Dean's statement. Dean silently begged him not to with his eyes. His brother seemed to take the hint and dropped it. "Think I might have found something for us," he said instead.

"Oh yeah?" said Dean unenthusiastically as he sat down at the table next to Sam.

"Thought you'd be a little more excited," said Sam. "We've had nothing for weeks."

Dean put his feet up on the table lazily. "I don't know, man. Kind of starting to enjoy a life of leisure. Maybe it's time to retire."

Sam sighed. "Look, Dean, I know you're still upset about what happened in Carthage. So am I, but…

"Upset?" said Dean. He chuckled in irony.

"It was a setback, but…

Dean shook his head. "It wasn't a setback, Sammy. It was our shot. Our one shot and it didn't work. Game over. We lose. So I say, let's spend the end of days on a tropical island sipping Mai Tai's and admiring the native girls in their coconut bikinis. Hell, we could even take up surfing."

"Dude, even if that was our one shot, which by the way, I seriously doubt, but even if it was and we can't defeat the devil, there's still plenty of other things to hunt. There's still plenty of people to save," said Sam.

Dean looked down at his hands. "What's the point? Lucifer's gonna gank us all anyway," he murmured under his breath.

"What?" said Sam.

Dean looked back up at Sam. "What's the job?" he said gruffly.

"Dean, you don't really…

"What's the job, Sam?" said Dean firmly, the matter closed.

Sam sighed again and sat back in his chair. "Maybe it's exactly what you're looking for. Comes with prize money at the end. A million dollars to be exact."

Dean nearly choked on his coffee. "Come again?"

"Holmes Point Bed and Breakfast. Shut down about five years ago due to an overabundance of paranormal activity," said Sam. "Apparently the owner, a Max Gibbons has tried to exterminate the problem by hiring out help."

"Hunters?" said Dean.

"Bingo. In the last year alone, six confirmed hunters and four, I guess you would call them civilians, checked in. They all checked out in body bags," said Sam.

"Hmmm, a regular Hotel California, huh? You can check in, but you can never leave," said Dean. "Where's the million dollars come into it?"

"Apparently Max Gibbons was the heir to a sizeable real estate fortune. The hotel and twenty others like it have been in the family for years. There's a standing award of a million dollars to whoever can survive the night and rid the bed and breakfast of its…infestation."

"Hot damn," said Dean.

"Yeah, so every amateur ghost facer," started Sam.

"And every hunter worth his salt," added Dean.

"Wants to take a crack at it," finished Sam.

"Uh huh," said Dean, silent for a moment. "So let some other hunter play who wants to be a millionaire."

Sam groaned. "Dude, it's not like you can cash in your company 401k. How do you plan to finance your endless summer? Poker? Credit card fraud? Probably wouldn't even pay for your banana hammock," said Sam.

"Damn straight, I need lots of material," said Dean.

"Ugh," said Sam. "I'm just saying…it'd be nice to give yourself a little cushion for the future."

"What's left of it," said Dean.

"Dean," said Sam, giving him the worried little brother eyes.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "Fine, I'll do it. But when this is finished, it's all about sunshine and sunburns. And I get to pick the island."

"Deal," said Sam, looking relieved. "I'll get us packed up and ready to go."

Dean watched as Sam jumped to action and then sunk back into his chair, shutting his eyes. He focused on his future as a rich professional sunbather, trying to ignore the flames of apocalyptic battle fire that kept entering into the picturesque vision.

TBC


	2. Act I

**Act I**

**See teaser for details…**

Sam floored the gas pedal of the Impala, the vibration making him feel powerful and alive as the car motored down the highway. They were 10 miles out from the bed and breakfast. He glanced over at Dean for a moment, who was asleep in the passenger's seat. He knew that Dean was hung over and possibly still a bit drunk when he had tossed Sam his car keys wordlessly. Sam had obliged and gotten in the driver's seat without question or comment.

Secretly, Sam had been thrilled. It felt good to be out in the world again, to have purpose. He had decided for himself that he wasn't going to let Lucifer or anything else get the best of either him or his brother. They had failed in Carthage and it had cost Ellen and Jo their lives. But Sam knew it was a price they had both been willing to pay, no matter how much he deemed the situation unjust and truly unfair. Their deaths coupled with Lucifer's taunting and fates threat of him ending up as the devil's vessel gave Sam the motives he needed to keep a clear head and to try to figure out a way to ultimately gank Lucifer and restore the world to its natural order. He was hell bent on redeeming himself, not only for God, country and himself, but for his brother as well.

Dean, on the other hand, didn't seem to share in his try and try again philosophy. He had seen his older brother down and out before, but never for this long and never this low. It was like Dean was holding himself personally responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to anyone in the entire world. He knew that Dean still considered himself expendable, even after all this time and everything they had been through. He knew it for certain on the night before the showdown, when Dean referred to his own possible death as merely the loss of a game piece. It still pissed him off that his brother could never assess any real value to himself except when it came to ridding the world of evil.

Which was exactly why Dean was taking this so hard. He had failed at the only thing that held any sense of self worth, which translated into Dean being a failure himself. What had happened with Lucifer had been like a sucker punch to his brother's gut. He could only imagine the thoughts whirling through Dean's head. That it was all of his fault. That he should've known better. That he shouldn't have put so many people at risk, that he got Ellen and Jo killed, that he should've been smarter…stronger. Sam wondered if Dean still had the voice of their father in his head, calling him out every time he screwed up. He was pretty sure that he did.

But all of these things weren't the thing that bothered Sam the most about Dean. Hell, he could excuse his brother for feeling out of sorts after the last few weeks. It had been hard for him to push through too. But it was the lost look in Dean's eyes that Sam didn't like. The pain there. The hopelessness. And the hole that Dean had fallen into seemed to be getting deeper and deeper every day. What was doing the drill work, Sam couldn't be sure, though he had his guesses. All he did know for sure was that if it kept up, Dean was going to lose himself. And Sam couldn't have it. Because he needed his brother. He couldn't save the world without him. And he didn't really want to.

So, Sam had poured over the internet, desperately searching for anything supernatural to hunt. His brother needed it to get back in the game, to feel like he had a purpose again. Once he did, Sam was sure this whole retirement notion would disappear as well. He just had to get Dean breathing again. Hopefully, everything would go smoothly.

He pulled the Impala onto Holmes Point Road and nudged his brother sharply in the shoulder. "Dude, wake up, we're here," said Sam as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the Holmes Point Bed & Breakfast

Dean jumped awake and for a moment, he looked like his old self. Then the light in his eyes faded away to a dull shimmer. He joined Sam in looking at the bed and breakfast, which looked more like a quaint cottage than a deadly haunted house. It was two stories with a white wash paint job, a blue roof and matching blue shutters on every window. It came complete with a brick pathway lined with rose bushes and a white picket fence. Several fat cats roamed around the grass of the front lawn.

"This place looks more Better Homes and Gardens than America's Most Haunted Places," said Dean as he and Sam both got out of the car.

An elderly woman with poufy grey hair and a pink robe guided an electric wheelchair down another pathway from a carriage house in the back of the property. She had a grey kitten sitting on her lap.

"Oh look, Rose Nyland's here," muttered Dean under his breath.

"Shut up," whispered Sam. He walked up to greet the woman. "Max? Maxine Gibbons?"

"Max, honey," she responded in a tiny voice as she checked out both the brothers. "Frank Poncharello and Jon Baker?"

"You can call me Ponch," said Dean.

The woman regarded them both oddly for a moment. "I'm sorry, but have we met before?"

"I don't think so. All of us hunters tend to look alike," responded Sam.

"I'll say," said Max. "I'm afraid I feel almost irresponsible even running my ad and my story. So many people have died."

"Well, we're not most people," said Dean.

"That's what all of them said," said Max.

"Max, can you tell us a little bit about the place? Were there ever any deaths or violent occurrences inside?" asked Sam.

"No, nothing like that," said Max, gently petting the kitten in her lap.

Dean stepped forward. "What about the land itself? Was the hotel built on a cemetery or maybe an ancient Indian burial ground?"

"No, this place has been here for years and years, and before that, it was all woods," answered Max.

"And this all started five years ago?" asked Sam. "Anything strange happen around that time? Significant?"

"No…it was like overnight, people just started dying. And it hasn't stopped," said Max. "Poor things."

Dean cleared his throat. "So what about the million dollars? How do we collect?"

"Survive the night," said Max. "If you survive, that means whatever's in there hasn't."

"Sounds easy enough," said Dean.

"No one's managed to do it yet, honey," said Max. She glanced towards the hotel for a moment. "Please excuse any messes you may find in there. Lately, it's been sort of difficult to get maid service."

"I can imagine," said Sam sympathetically.

"Well, I wish you both the best of luck," said Max. "Hopefully I see you here tomorrow morning." She smiled and then picked up her kitten, giving it a full on kiss on the lips. "Don't you just love animals?"

"I feel the same way about cars," said Dean, flashing Sam a what the hell look. "Believe me, if I could make out with…

Sam smacked Dean hard and he shut up. "Have a good night Max."

Max smiled pleasantly and gave her kitten another kiss before turning her wheelchair around and heading back towards the guest house.

"Great, we're dealing with crazy cat lady," said Dean.

Sam chuckled as he took out the keys to the Impala and used them to open the trunk. Dean lifted up the false panel, exposing all of their weapons. Sam began pulling random things out and throwing them into a duffel bag. "Wooden stakes, salt, shotguns, holy water, the knife, the Colt," said Sam.

Dean huffed. "Yeah, like that's gonna work," he said, eyeing the Colt with something almost akin to disgust.

"Dean, it's killed plenty of other things that go bump in the night," said Sam. "I'm bringing it."

"Whatever," said Dean. "Let's go kill us a ghost or a vamp or a damn leprechaun or whatever the hell's in this place."

An eerie stillness pervaded across the front entry way and a slight chill rang in the air. Suddenly, the innocent looking B & B looked a little darker than before. The brothers exchanged glances. "Here goes nothing," said Sam, slamming the trunk of the Impala.

****

Dean entered the small hotel first, his shotgun locked and loaded. The first thing that hit him as he stepped inside was the smell. The rotting flesh smell of death, the sharp coppery smell of blood, the too sweet overripe smell of sickness and the slight burnt electrical smell of faded energy all coupled into one waft of scent that told Dean's senses that something very bad had gone down in this place. It told his stomach that his nose didn't much like these smells after a night of Gentleman Jack therapy. He ran a hand unconsciously over his grumbling stomach. "I think they forgot to Febreeze the couches."

Sam dropped his bag and pushed the front door back, fanning the area. "I think they forgot to let any air in." Suddenly, the door ripped out of his hand and slammed shut, followed by a series of clicks that sounded like every window and door leading outside had locked.

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother. "That's comforting."

Sam tried in vain to open the front door. "Guess we're in for the night, huh?"

"Yeah," said Dean, shivering slightly. The sick feeling in his stomach intensified for a moment before his hunter's instinct took over, forcing his body and mind into a place of calm and focus. He surveyed the space of the deceptively large B & B from his position at the foyer. Directly in front of him and Sam was a sitting area with a few comfy looking chairs, a couch, a few end tables, a busted TV and a fireplace. Vases of dead flowers sat creepily on the end tables.

In the middle of the room, was a wooden staircase, leading to three or four bedrooms. Beyond the staircase, towards the back of the house was a rundown kitchen and next to it, a windowless dining room with a rather regal looking wood table. To the left of the stairway, was a hallway that led to a large room that looked to be some kind of library or den. There was another room next to it with its door shut that Dean assumed to be either a bathroom or a closet. There was faded art on the walls and some nice looking rugs on the floor. Dean guessed that in its day, this place had been quite the hot ticket in town. But now, it looked like skeletal remains.

"Alright little brother," said Dean. "I'll take upstairs, you take downstairs."

Sam looked a little concerned. "Maybe we should do this together."

"Whaddaya scared? Come on Sammy, we've done this a hundred times. Hell, a thousand." He held up his gun. "Point and shoot." He pulled out the demon killing knife. "Slice and dice."

"Fine," said Sam uneasily. "Meet back here in twenty minutes. If you're not here, I'm coming up after you."

"Relax, dude," said Dean. "Piece of cake."

"Let's hope you're right," said Sam.

"I'm always right," said Dean.

"Says you," said Sam. He gave Dean one last glance and then headed down the hallway towards the library.

Dean watched him for a moment and then crept up the first steps of the wooden staircase, the wood creaking dramatically under his boot clad feet. The late afternoon light was fading, replaced by the twilight of dusk that would soon lead to night. The lack of light made differentiating the individual stairs difficult and Dean almost took a tumble several times as he stumbled his way up towards the second floor.

A pang of intense loneliness suddenly hit him as he climbed in the dark and he felt carved out and hollow inside. He resisted the urge to call out to Sam. Instead, he reached for his flask and took a healthy swig. The Jack burned his throat and warmed his gut, filling him up. He replaced the flask as he reached the top of the stairs and flicked on a large floor light that was just off the landing. It flickered for a moment and then clicked on, bathing the stairway and the hallway in warm light.

"That's better," said Dean, the whiskey hitting him, making his brain feel like it was tucked in comforting warmth. The light made things better too.

He saw there were four bedrooms down the corridor with what he figured was a bathroom and a master/honeymoon suite bookending the guest rooms. All the doors were closed. It was quiet. Peaceful. Still. If he listened hard enough, he could hear his brother clamoring about downstairs.

"Let's see what's behind door number one, Alex," said Dean as he stepped towards the bathroom. He took a deep breath as his hand reached for the doorknob, his shotgun ready. He twisted the knob and opened the door, forcefully pointing his gun into the room, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire, his heart pounding in adrenaline fueled ecstasy. He flicked on the light. Nothing but a fancy marble bathtub and matching sink. All quiet. All clear.

He left the light on and the door opened as he headed out of the bathroom and towards the next door. He wondered how his brother was doing downstairs and was then struck by a bite of nostalgia for the days when he and Sam would go in, kill the monster and save the day. No end of the world crap. No vessels. No deaths of friends on their heads and hearts. It was funny, but at the time, Dean remembered feeling so angsted out trying to find his dad, worrying about Sammy and trying to be the man in charge that he had missed how much he and his brother had accomplished in such a short time. They had saved so many people and had gotten rid of so much pure evil. It was disappointing to know that this was where all of that had lead. Instead of saving the world and saving their family, they had destroyed it.

Dean blew out a sigh and then forced open the door to the first bedroom, the door knob slamming harshly against the wall as he flicked on a light switch, his gun more than ready to go off. He was greeted with two twin beds, an old television and a huge chest of drawers. The scariest thing in the room was the dust bunnies.

He moved over to door number three, gripping the doorknob and opening it in one swift movement, his gun perched out in front of him eagerly. He flicked on the light and saw that room number two was notable for its very comfortable looking king sized bed. This was so his room for the night. In fact, if he could stay in that room in that bed for eternity, he'd be a happy man.

He backed out of the room and made his way over to door number four. He reached for the doorknob and twisted it. Locked. The temperature in the hallway slipped down a few notches. Dean's heart thudded loudly in his chest, the cold sensation sharpening his senses, the slight whiskey buzz and everything else forgotten as his brain honed in on whatever lie behind the door. He sucked in a deep breath of anticipation and then blew it out, the white wisps of his breath blowing lightly in front of his eyes. He held out his gun and kicked at the door with all of his might, grunting heartily from the force of it. The doorknob busted off easily and the wood of the door splintered as the door swung open from the power of Dean's kick. Dean flicked the switch, but no light came on.

He stepped into the room, which was black except for a sliver of moonlight. It was a carbon copy of the room next door with a big comfy bed and a huge television. Only this room had dark stains all over the carpet. While Dean couldn't see the red tinge in the dark light, he knew they were blood stains. His grip tightened on his weapon as he moved farther into the room. "Why don't we quit the game of hide and go seek, huh?" said Dean, searching wildly around the room for the spirit. "Come out and we can play a real game."

The room was silent, almost eerily so, as if it were mocking him. Dean felt like an ass, but he stepped to the bed and quickly lifted the sheet up, looking under it. Nothing. He turned and noticed a small walk in closet with its door ominously shut. He nodded slightly, his adrenaline kicking up a notch. He crept towards the closet in near silence, his years of experience as a hunter aiding in his stealth mode. He reached the closet a second later, readied his shot gun and then flung the door open, pumping shot after shot of rock salt into the small five by five space. But the shots found no purchase and simply collided against some old clothes and boxes before falling to their spent deaths useless.

Dean put the gun down, suddenly feeling very disorientated. His gut knew there was something here, but he just couldn't find it. Maybe the whiskey had dulled his senses. Maybe he was losing his edge. Maybe he had never had it.

There was a light tap on his shoulder.

Dean's heart shot up to his throat as his whole body flinched in absolute terror. He more jumped around then turned, his hands shaky, his legs wobbly. It was no wonder she was able to so easily push the gun out of his hand. Dean felt like he'd been punched in the stomach as his eyes landed on Jo Harvelle.

"Hey Dean," she said casually.

"Jo?" he whispered, swallowing convulsively. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this absolutely wasn't Jo. But his heart and his soul weren't paying attention. Neither were his senses. He could smell the vanilla based perfume she always wore. Before he could help himself, he reached out to touch her arm. He felt her skin…its softness, its warmth, its humanity. He abruptly stepped back. "You can't be real," he said, swallowing back a lump in his throat. "You died. You died saving my life."

"Yeah I did," said Jo, stepping towards him. "I'd do it again."

Dean swallowed hard. "Why?"

She gazed up at him with her warm brown eyes and he made the mistake of returning the gaze. He felt himself getting sucked in and suddenly, he was assaulted with visions of a life he would never have. He and Jo kissing…making love…getting married…having a baby…cheering their son at little league…Jo holding him in bed…Jo holding his hand as he died an old man, telling him how much she loved him.

Dean blinked his eyes hard and looked away from her. "It wasn't meant to be Jo."

She crossed her arms over her chest giving him her patent know it all bratty smirk. "Obviously."

"It's not…I wish…well, you'd probably be surprised what I wish," said Dean, fumbling for the right words.

Jo sauntered towards him then, backing him up against the wall, her body pressing against his in all the right places. He wanted her. He wanted her so bad. A shot of pure desire shot from his groin to his brain and he was pretty sure his whole faced flushed red. He reached a hand out and ran it through strands of her silky long hair. He pulled her chin up so she was looking up at him and then leaned down, kissing her soft lips ferociously, knowing all the while that none of this could possibly be real. But he didn't care. He needed this. He needed one moment of comfort shared with someone he truly did care about and who truly cared about him.

"Jo," he gasped, putting his arms around her and pulling her tightly against him, basking in her warmth and softness as he took full advantage of a chance he'd thought he'd never have again.

The brief moment of peace was lost entirely as Jo brought her knee up harshly into Dean's groin. The world spun and he saw stars as a nausea filled throb sailed through his stomach. He doubled over in shock and agony.

"How could you ever have your own family Dean? You can't take care of the one you got. Hell, you can barely take care of yourself," said Jo. She brought up her knee again, this time catching him in the jaw. The jolt sent him reeling to the floor. "Me and my mom are dead because of you! And you did a piss poor job of trying to kill the devil. We died for nothing!"

She stood over him, looking huge, her words hitting him like a guilt bomb that exploded in his heart, hurting him far more than any of her hits. He grasped for his shotgun with outstretched fingers, staring up at her as he did, mourning something he would never have the chance to have with her or probably anybody else. The feeling was accompanied with a deep sense of failure. Because in the end, he should've been able to protect her and Ellen. Bottom line.

She kicked at him viciously, catching him in the ribs and the back, the power behind the blows strong. His hand finally gripped the shotgun.

"Dean!" he vaguely heard Sam cry out in the distance.

Dean shakily grasped his gun and took one last look at Jo. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he pulled the trigger. She disintegrated in a puff of smoke and ash.

Dean lay back on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Dean," said Sam as he knelt down next to him. "You alright man? What the hell was that thing?"

Dean breathed hard as he slowly sat up, hugging his arms around his middle. "Couldn't you see her, man? It was Jo," said Dean, still trying to catch his breath. "It was Jo."

"What?" said Sam in a confused tone.

"It was her…swear to god…well, not her her, but her spirit or…something…you know what I mean," said Dean anxiously. "Damn it, didn't you see her?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Dean, all I saw was this glowing figure of light attacking you... and then it was gone. It wasn't Jo."

Dean glanced around crazily, his pulse going wild. "What the hell's in this place, Sammy?"

TBC


	3. Act II

**Act II**

**See teaser for details…**

**Got a little Kripked with Sam, Interupted, but not too bad. Same concepts, different direction. **

**Thanks for the reviews, the story alerts and the favoriting…makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside **** Enjoy the next part…**

"Okay, let's think about his," said Sam in as calm a voice as possible. He tried to ignore the look of terror and unease in his brother's eyes. He wasn't used to seeing it there.

Dean pinched his nose and then ran his hand down his face. "I'm not crazy, Sam. It was Jo. I could…I touched her," he said, his eyes not meeting Sam's. "Hell, I could smell her," he continued, his voice going gruff as he desperately tried to put his mask of badassery back on. "Did you find anything downstairs?"

"Besides the red paint job in the bathroom…nothing. Everything was clean," said Sam.

"No bodies buried in some secret passage place somewhere?" asked Dean, standing up.

"No, Dean, I'm telling you, there's nothing here," said Sam.

Dean nodded towards the master bedroom, its door still shut. "I didn't get that far. Maybe Norman's mother is holed up inside?"

"Be great if it were that easy, huh?" said Sam. He pulled the shotgun out of Dean's hands.

"Since when is it ever that easy? Especially for us," said Dean.

Sam twisted the doorknob to the bedroom and slowly opened the door. He could hear Dean's rapid breathing in his ear as he cautiously entered the dark room, shot gun held out in front of him. He tried the light switch and the room lit up in a burst of bulb. The room was a slightly bigger version of the two rooms next to it, complete with big comfy bed, television and a big chest of drawers. This one didn't come with a spirit though. "Room's clean, dude."

"There's gotta be something at the source of all of this man," said Dean.

"Library downstairs," said Sam. "We should start there."

Dean groaned. "Oh joy…research."

A half hour later, Sam was sitting behind his computer, knee deep in Google research while Dean was pretending to look through scrapbooks of the hotel he had found in the bookcase. Sam snuck peeks at Dean every few minutes, catching the troubled far off look in his brother's eyes. He also caught the sneaks of whiskey Dean was taking off his flask. Sam was really regretting talking Dean into this hunt. It was obvious he wasn't ready. Unfortunately, they were trapped like rats for the night. He sighed heavily and looked back at his ghostly Google results. He saw an article about a shape shifting mass of dark energy called an Uturu that caught his eye.

"Hmm, this is interesting," uttered Dean.

Sam looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see Dean actually looking at a newspaper article that was stuck in one of the scrapbooks. "What?"

"Apparently Maxine "Max" Gibbons isn't in a wheelchair from old age. Five years ago she was struck by a truck and narrowly escaped death," said Dean. "Isn't that when all these hauntings started?"

"Yeah, yeah that's right," said Sam, unable to control encouragement in his tone.

Dean glared at him. "Dude, I'm fine, okay. Don't treat me like some scared kid."

"Dean, I wasn't," said Sam.

"Whatever," said Dean. He stood up and grabbed one of the shotguns.

"Where you going?" asked Sam.

"What are you, the hall monitor? Gotta take a leak," said Dean.

"Ah, you might want to go upstairs. The downstairs bathroom is kind of…gushy," said Sam.

"Right," said Dean. "If I'm not back in ten, it means burning man got me."

Sam chuckled slightly as he watched Dean leave the room and then got back to the article on the Uturu.

****

Dean zipped up and flushed the toilet, sighing softly. The whiskey buzz was starting to wear off and now he just felt lethargic and generally out of it. He could drink more, but the amount that would be required to reach that click state of mind would put him over into full blown drunkenness. And he really wasn't one to drink on the job, especially one as messed up as this one.

He took a glimpse of himself in the mirror and started in surprise and a bit in disgust. He looked like absolute hell. In fact, he looked worse than when he actually was in hell. He had lost a lot of weight the last few weeks and it showed, particularly in his face, which appeared bony and sunken in. His skin was pale and lacked its usual glow. His stubble was beyond stubble, it was almost a beard he was so scruffy. But the worst was his eyes. They were dull, lifeless. The usual vibrant green that sparkled with mirth was gone, replaced by…nothing. He looked like he had died with his eyes open.

His shoulders were slumped down, the invisible weight getting heavier and harder for him to handle every day. He turned on the faucet and leaned down, palming the cool water over his face, wishing that he could wash all of it away.

He turned off the faucet and looked back up in the mirror. His breath hitched in shock. Standing behind him in the reflection was his father.

"Dad?" he murmured, his voice going high, losing all of its usual manly gruffness. He was twelve years old again.

"Son," said John.

Dean's heart won out over his brain. He just couldn't help himself. He turned around and pulled John into a tight hug, drinking in his musky dad scent that made Dean feel like he was home. He waited to feel his father's arms embrace him, but they never did. Dean stepped back, swallowing hard, his eyes hesitantly rising to meet that of his father's. John was giving him one of his you screwed up good looks, which had the power to topple any and all sense of self worth or value within Dean. In fact, he had spent most of his life doing everything he could possibly do to avoid getting those looks. Even after his father had died, when Dean messed up, he would see that look in his mind and it would feel like he had been gutted. Somehow, this look he getting now, from a damn spirit or ghost or whatever the hell, was the most excruciating look from his father Dean had ever seen. He wanted to die right there on the spot. Just shoot him in the head like a wounded dog and put him out of his misery. "I know you're disappointed in me. Hell, I'm disappointed in me," said Dean as he slowly backed out of the bathroom, cursing himself when he realized the shotgun was sitting on the back of the toilet.

"Disappointed, Dean? Disappointed?" said John in a stern voice. "Disappointed's when you destroy a car. You…you destroyed the world. I'm not disappointed, son. I'm horrified."

A lump formed in Dean's throat. "I tried dad. I tried to save Sammy. I tried to protect him. Hell, I tried to stop him." A small sob escaped Dean's lips. "I tried so damn hard, dad."

"You don't try Dean, you just do it. I thought I'd taught you better than that," said John. "I went to hell for you, son…to hell. I gave you one order and you didn't follow it. In fact, you went and did the exact opposite of what I wanted you to do!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said Dean.

"Do you see now why I gave you that order? Are you getting the big picture here?" said John, getting right up in Dean's face. John was only a little taller and heavier than Dean in actuality, but in Dean's mind, his father had and always would be a giant. Dean's heart thudded painfully in fear as his father continued on his tirade. "I never would've traded my soul for your life if I knew this was how you were going to let things end up," said John, glaring at him.

Dean felt weak in his knees. The air had been knocked out of him. He looked up at his father through blurry eyes. "I'm sorry dad. I'm trying to make it right."

John scoffed. "How Dean, how? By making a jackass out of yourself by thinking you could kill Lucifer with the Colt? By getting Jo and Ellen killed? By saying yes to Michael and letting him destroy half the world? Damn it, son, you never should've let it get this far. If you had done what I asked when I asked you to do it, none of this would've happened!"

"But Sam…

"This isn't about Sam, Dean, it's about you…about your responsibility to not only your family, but the people around you. And you blew it, son. You blew it," said John as he grinded his foot against the floor, like a bull getting ready to charge. "You blew it!"

The first blow Dean had anticipated and was able to side swipe. But the sudden follow up blow to the kidney he hadn't counted on and the stabbing pain startled him, sending him to the ground. John didn't give him time to recover. He pummeled Dean with fist and foot, hitting him savagely, the momentum from the blows edging him closer and closer to the staircase. The blows came so hard and so fast that all Dean could do was tuck into himself and try to protect his most vital organs from the onslaught as he tried to get away.

"You blew it!" yelled John. His father pulled his leg back to kick and Dean used the opportunity to kick out at the other leg, catching the spirit off balance. Dean was able to stagger up and punch the spirit solidly in the face. This gave him an opening to reach for an iron shank he always kept tucked in his sock. He pulled it out and stabbed forward, hitting his father. But not before the spirit was able to get in one more punch to Dean's face, the force sending him reeling backwards as he watched his father disappear in a cloud before his eyes. His right foot suddenly had no purchase and he realized with sickening dread that he was going to fall down the staircase.

****

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his brain fried. There was something he wasn't getting about this case. He knew it was right under his nose, but he couldn't quite place it. He was pretty sure he had identified the big bad they were fighting, but something still wasn't making sense. It was an Uturu. Of that much he was positive. But he couldn't figure out its source. Maybe there was something else in the house.

He heard a loud thud followed by a shout and then more thuds. Dean. He had been so lost in thought in hadn't realized how long his brother had been gone. Panic ate away at him as he dashed out of the den to find his brother. He arrived at the staircase just in time to see Dean smack into one of the stairs with his back and then do a full somersault down the rest of the stairway before coming to land with a harsh whack against the floor.

"Dean!" said Sam as he knelt down next to his brother to check for injuries. "What the hell happened?"

Dean looked up at him with ghosts in his eyes. "Dad," he gasped out. Then his eyes fluttered and his head rolled limply to the side.

"Dean, Dean!" shouted Sam, nudging him. But Dean was out cold.

TBC


	4. Act III

**Act III**

**See disclaimer for details…**

**Thanks so much for the response! Enjoy the next part…**

Sam gently did a cursory exam of his unconscious brother, first checking for any obvious neck or spine injuries. When he was satisfied that Dean wasn't critically injured, he went about checking the rest of his body. He ran his hands through Dean's scalp, finding a nice lump on the back of his head from where he had smacked it against the floor. He examined Dean's face and ran a soft finger over a shiner that would turn into a glorious black eye by morning. There was also some swelling on Dean's right cheek that would turn purple in a few hours, but nothing appeared to be broken or out of whack.

Sam moved to Dean's chest and belly, noting the slight wheeze in his breathing. He lifted up Dean's shirt and grimaced at the red welts all over his stomach and the purplish swelling on the right side at the base of Dean's ribcage. The swelling continued onto his back. Sam rolled his brother over gently, the motion eliciting a soft gasp of pain from Dean. The inflammation of the ribs was even worse on his brother's back. He probed the area tenderly and felt the way the bones gave way slightly under the pressure. Definitely cracked, possibly even broken. He also noted a nasty looking bruise forming over Dean's left kidney. Sam put Dean's shirt down and rolled him so he was resting on his left side, taking the pressure off his injuries. His eyes did a quick scan of the rest of his brother and found no other serious damage that needed immediate attention.

Sam sat back on his haunches and frowned, trying to figure out his next move. It was obvious the Uturu was targeting Dean and not him, at least for the moment. He had to get his brother someplace protected and not so out in the open. The library, which was already their unofficial base of operation, was the most logical choice. Plus, it was close. He glanced down grimly at his brother, trying to figure out the most painless way to get him there. He decided that quick and efficient ruled over trying to figure out a comfortable carrying positioning. He stood up and reached for his brother, grasping Dean under the arm pits as he scooped up his weight with a grunt and then hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Dean groaned loudly as his busted ribs met Sam's solid shoulder.

"Sorry, bro," mumbled Sam as he carried Dean back into the den.

Dean was already stirring by the time Sam got him inside. He deposited Dean lightly on a well worn leather couch. "Sam?"

"Easy man," said Sam, placing a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, trying to ignore the whipped puppy look he saw in his eyes. "Just hold tight a sec."

Sam left Dean's side and quickly went for his duffle, pulling out a canister of salt. He shut the door to the den and then anxiously poured out a generous salt line in front of the door. He moved to the back of the room and added a few lines of salt at the two windows on either side of the bookcase for good measure. He replaced the salt in his bag and then pulled out the first aid kit. He pulled out a few compresses and cracked them, activating the ice. He brought them over to his fallen brother. "Here," whispered Sam. He lifted his brother's head up and put one pack underneath the bump. Then he lifted Dean's shirt and tried to position the other pack over the most damaged looking area over his ribs. Dean shivered slightly at the cold, but didn't protest, which surprised Sam. In fact, it seemed like his brother wasn't even there. His eyes held a vague expression that worried Sam. It was like he was in a trance or something. "Hey Dean," said Sam, snapping his fingers in front of his brother's face. "You with me, man?"

Dean's eyes cleared, but only slightly. He looked at Sam. "I saw dad." Dean's eyes radiated pain, so much so that it almost hurt to return his brother's gaze. "I mean…it wasn't dad, but…"

"I know," said Sam, nodding in understanding. He cleared his throat sharply. "I think I might've figured out what we're dealing with," he said quickly, trying to shift Dean's focus off of his encounter with the spirit.

It seemed to help as Dean's eyes cleared a little more. "Yeah?"

"It's an Uturu," said Sam

"An Uta what?" asked Dean.

"Uturu. Dark energy that can shift into basically anything you can imagine. It feeds on your thoughts and keeps forming and forming and getting more powerful until it finds the thing in your head that has the power to destroy you. And whatever kind of power that thing holds, whether it be physical or mental or whatever, the Uturu can use against you," said Sam.

"Making it as strong and invincible as your biggest enemy…or your worst nightmare," finished Dean.

"Exactly," said Sam.

"So this Uturu's gonna get stronger?"

"Unless we figure out a way to kill it, then yeah," said Sam.

"Well that's good," said Dean, groaning slightly as he shifted on the couch. "Why is it only coming after me?"

"I have no idea," said Sam. "Maybe it can only kill one victim at a time…maybe it's using you to get to both of us…I don't know. And I can't figure out how it's getting in your head. Something else more powerful usually taps into your thoughts and then feeds them to the spirit. The Uturu is normally just the hired muscle. It gets its power and regenerating ability from whatever other creature it's hooked itself up with."

"A supernatural hanger-on. Nice," said Dean, suddenly looking away from Sam. "So maybe there's something else in this place calling the shots," he continued, half-heartedly. His eyes were getting that angsted over glaze again.

"Dean…hey…you know that wasn't really dad, right," said Sam.

"Yeah man, of course," said Dean, his voice overly confident, but his eyes betraying him.

"Whatever he said…whatever he did, it wasn't real. It was just in your head," said Sam.

Dean glanced back at Sam, giving him a haphazard smile, his eyes suspiciously sparkling. "I know."

Both brothers were silent for a moment. Sam's eyes drifted away from Dean and landed on the scrapbook still on the table, the article on Max Gibbons catching his eye. A light bulb beamed bright in his head. "Dean, what if the Uturu's power source isn't inside the hotel? What if it's outside?"

"What do you mean?" said Dean, his eyes focusing once again.

Sam didn't respond. Instead, he went over to his computer and did another search. He found what he was looking for and after a quick scan, he nodded his head confidently. "According to this, sometimes demons use Uturu's. They're like pets."

Dean took a glance at the scrapbook, realization spreading across his face. "Crazy cat lady. So, what, Max is possessed by a demon that's controlling this thing?"

"Exactly," said Sam. "The demon controls them and feeds them with the victim's thoughts. The Uturu is able to keep reforming because its source of power can't be killed. Not from in here anyway. Which is why everyone who's come in here has died. They're locked in with a spirit that can't be killed. And eventually, the Uturu becomes the thing in their mind that they're powerless to stop. And it kills them."

"So, you think if we can kill the demon, we can kill the Uturu?" asked Dean.

"Can't survive without something feeding it energy, right?" said Sam. "We cut the Uturu's power source, it can't reform. Iron or rock salt should disintegrate it for good."

Dean gingerly inched himself up into a sitting position. "Alright, so what do we got that can kill this mother? I think my knife and my shotgun are both upstairs."

Sam nodded and sorted through his bag of weapons. He pulled out the container of salt, another knife he knew was made of iron, and an iron poker picked up on some random hunt. "Here's a start," he said as he tossed the knife and poker on the floor towards Dean. "I'm gonna grab your knife and shotgun and see if I can find us a way out of this place so we can get to the demon."

"I think the bitch pretty much has us on lockdown," said Dean.

"We'll just have to go to plan b then," said Sam.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

Sam paused and thought for a moment. "I have no idea."

Dean nodded. "That's good."

"I'll be right back. I'm salting you in as soon as I get on the other side of the door," said Sam. "The Uturu shouldn't be able to get to you."

"Here's hoping," said Dean, taking a quick hit off his flask.

Sam opened the door to the den, breaking the salt line he had laid earlier. The second it broke, a harsh wind hit the room and Sam was violently pulled out of the den and flung out into the foyer. The door then slammed shut, cutting him off from his brother. Sam immediately clamored to his feet and ran to the door, jiggling the doorknob helplessly. "Dean!" He slammed his shoulder brutally against the door, but it was no use, the door was practically super glued shut. He tried fruitlessly to kick the door down with his foot as he listened helplessly to the shouts and slams coming from the other side of the door, imagining with vivid horror what the Uturu was doing to his brother now.

****

Dean's heart skipped a beat as he watched Sam get tossed out of the room and a force akin to a tornado entered in his place. He grabbed for the knife on the floor and stood up, waiting for the Uturu to materialize. When it finally did, he hesitated for the briefest of moments, realizing he was standing before an exact copy of himself, same clothes and everything. Before the Uturu, could get a word in edgewise, Dean pounced at his doppelganger with the knife, adrenaline kicking through him, allowing him to get past his injuries and give him an extra dose of strength.

But his double was ready for him. Dean number two twisted his wrist in the air. Dean cried out as his own wrist snapped and the knife fell out of his hand. His twin then waved his hand towards the bookcase and Dean went flying through the air. He crashed into the bookcase and fell into a crumpled heap on the floor, his head ringing, his ribs and wrist throbbing with pain. He looked up dizzily as his twin swiftly appeared at his feet. "Lemme guess, you're super Dean?" asked Dean, coughing.

"Not quite," said his twin.

"Okay, then you're dick me from the future. Come to rip me a new one for not being strong enough and making all the wrong choices," said Dean.

"I'm Michael, Dean," said the Uturu.

Dean nodded and then stopped when he began to see triplets. "So you are super size me then," he panted. His eyes drifted shut for a moment as he tried to get his focus and steady himself against the pain. When he opened them again, his double had stepped even closer. Dean checked his vessel self out. His stance was confident and filled with strength. He looked bigger and taller, and frankly, more handsome. Hell, he looked like a damn superhero. He looked in his eyes and saw none of the self hatred, the doubt, the sadness. What he saw was much worse. It was a pure unadulterated appetite for destruction.

"What are you so afraid of, Dean?" said Michael. "I come with so much power."

"Too much," murmured Dean.

"Do you really think you're gonna stop any of this on your own?" said Michael. "You're not strong enough. You're weak. You've proved that time and time again. I think the real reason you won't say yes to me isn't because you're afraid I'm going to destroy half the world. I think it's because you don't have the balls. Or maybe you're worried about what being my vessel is going to do to your body? Is it going to hurt you? Is it going to break you? Turn you into a shell, your mind into mush? Tough. Get over it. It's called sacrifice for the greater good."

Dean gave Michael the finger with his good hand. "Sit and spin, you roided out douche bag."

Michael chuckled and continued, "That's it, isn't it. You're too much of a wimp and a coward to get your pretty little hands dirty. You'd rather sit around and cry and angst about like a woman and get all sensitive about what my damn body count's gonna be. That's alright, Dean. Sit and pine some more. Give my runt of a brother the chance to kill off another town or two while you cry yourself into your maxi pad," said Michael, smiling like the Cheshire cat. It was chilling. It was inhuman.

"Screw off," said Dean, not able to meet his own eyes.

"Maybe you're feeling a little guilty, Dean? Maybe your gut is telling you the right thing to do is to say yes to me. Maybe you're thinking you should've done it all along. If you had, maybe all those people in Carthage would still be alive. Maybe Jo and Ellen would be still alive. Maybe Sam would finally be safe," said Michael.

Dean moved his eyes up to meet his own. "No," he said softly.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you? Your little girl voice was getting in the way," said Michael.

Dean glared at himself. "I said no," he responded, putting as much menace behind his voice as he could muster. "Did I stutter?"

Michael responded by grabbed Dean's neck with one hand and pulling him off the ground, smashing him against the bookcase. Dean's air was cut off and his throat felt like it was collapsing in on itself as the muscles inside began to pulse with pain. He struggled wildly, his legs kicking out at Michael, his hands clutching and clawing at his double's arms. But the Uturu's grip was iron tight. Out of desperation, he reached for some books in the bookcase and threw them one by one at Michael, but they had no affect against the spirit. His eyes scanned the surrounding area in a panicked haze as he slowly started to black out from lack of oxygen. He spied a heavy looking metal paperweight on one of the bookshelves and reached out for it, praying it had iron in it. He threw the object at the Uturu and it bounced off harmlessly. The pain in his throat started to ease some, which wasn't good. He was starting to go. He could feel it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the window and the salt line sprinkled at the sill. With one last heave of desperation, Dean stretched his arm as far as it would go and was able to grasp a pile of the salt in the palm of his hand. He angled it towards the Uturu and threw it at the spirit. Michael disintegrated into an explosion of dust.

Dean dropped to the floor like a sack. His vision was completely blacked out and he couldn't breathe. It was like all the air had been knocked out of him and his throat had been squeezed shut, not letting him take in any air. He vaguely became aware that Sam was now at his side, but it was all a blur. He felt hands rolling him into the fetal position, followed by a very sharp slap to his cheek.

"Dean, Dean, breathe. You're panicking. I need you to relax and take a breath," he heard Sam say in a commanding tone.

He did as he was told and it felt like he was trying to suck water out of a straw that had been pinched off. Nothing was getting in.

"Again, again, keep trying," coached Sam.

Again. This time something hit his throat. Oxygen. He gagged, dragging in more air.

"That's it bro, breathe."

He took in another breath and coughed. And then another breath and another and another. Pain returned to his body, which in this case, was probably a good thing. Another breath. And another. He could breathe. He coughed. He breathed. He breathed again.

Before he knew it, he was panting rapidly as his airway cleared more and more and oxygen flowed into his body once again. His vision cleared up as did rest of his senses, leaving him to realize that he was curled up in his brother's arms. Sam was rubbing and patting his back like he was a baby. He would've protested, but he didn't have the energy. And damn, it felt so good just to breathe.

"You got it, man, you're good," said Sam.

A few more moments passed and Dean uncurled himself from Sam's clutches, rolling himself onto his back. He wrapped his arms protectively around his midsection, fighting nausea, pain and out and out fear. Not to mention exhaustion.

Sam stood up and dashed madly about the room, collecting a few random things and dumping them on the table next to his computer. Then he rifled through his duffle and after a second, pulled out a book of spells.

"Sammy?" croaked Dean, coughing. "What're you doing?"

"There's no way out of here, man. I checked the whole house while you were in here," said Sam in a rush as he paged through the spell book.

"Plan b?" rasped Dean.

"Plan b," said Sam, looking up from the book. "We can't get to the demon. So we bring the demon to us."

TBC


	5. Act IV

Act IV

See disclaimer for details…

Sam paged through the spell book wildly, his brain going in a hundred different directions. After flipping and then re-flipping past the same 50 pages, he found the spell he was looking for. He slammed the opened book down triumphantly on the table and then took a moment to skim the ingredients he would need to summon the demon. He scanned the room, seeing if he could use anything.

"Sammy, you're making my head hurt, man," came the scratchy, breathy, freaked out voice of his brother.

"We gotta summon this demon before the Uturu reforms and takes you out for good," said Sam anxiously as he ripped through his duffle bag, looking for supplies.

"That won't take much," murmured Dean.

There was enough edge in Dean's voice that it caused Sam to stop what he was doing and look at him. His brother's eyes were glassy and his breathing was ragged and downright painful sounding. His face had gone totally white and he was bathed in sweat. He looked like he was either about to throw up or pass out, or maybe both. But there was a determined crease in his brow that told Sam that while his brother may be down, he wasn't out. Not yet anyway. Dean struggled to stand, ready and willing to fight if needed. Never mind that his arm was hanging limply and uselessly at his side or that he was grimacing in obvious pain at the mere effort of trying to straighten up.

"Take it easy, man. Just sit there," said Sam. He watched as Dean visibly relaxed and slumped back against the bookcase. But not before reclaiming his iron knife off the floor and shoving it into his waistband. He had to smile at his brother's stubbornness.

Sam grabbed the salt out of his duffle and poured it out onto the floor in a pattern matching the drawing in the book perfectly. "Okay," he whispered as he glanced at the book to see what else was needed. "Blood of the summoner." He picked out another knife from the duffle, gritted his teeth and ran it over his arm, grimacing slightly as the blade slit through his skin and blood seeped out. He angled his arm over the center of the salt pattern and let a few drops drip down.

That done, he went on to the next item. He stepped over to Dean, knife in hand. For a moment, Dean's eyes flashed in fear. Sam reached down, ignoring Dean's flinch, chopping off a few strands of Dean's hair.

"Dude, haven't I been through enough today? Do you have to take away the one thing I have left to hold on to?" said Dean.

"And what would that be?" asked Sam.

"My physical beauty," answered Dean.

"I'm gonna need your lighter," said Sam, ignoring him. "And your flask too."

"My flask?" said Dean, reaching for his lighter and handing it over to Sam.

"Got whiskey in it, right?" said Sam. "Spell calls for barley."

Dean rolled his eyes. He pulled out the flask, took a swig and hesitantly handed it over. "Whatever."

Sam set the hair, lighter and flask on the table and then glanced again at the spell book. "Garlic, daisy petals and nutmeg."

"What are you Martha Stewart now?" asked Dean.

Sam thought for a moment and then hurried over to Dean, pulling him up to his feet. Dean groaned, unsteady. "Sammy, what the…"

"There's dead flowers that looked like daisies in the sitting area and there's a spice rack in the kitchen," said Sam as he took most of Dean's weight.

"And I have to come along because?" asked Dean.

"Because every time I leave you alone, that thing attacks," said Sam as he more or less dragged his brother out of the den.

They got out to the sitting room, where Dean grabbed the dead flowers out of one of the vases sitting on the end table. He handed them to Sam. "There, I helped," he said listlessly.

Sam got Dean into the kitchen and settled him up against the counter. Then he examined the spice rack, pulling out a jar of nutmeg. He then began searching through shelves in the pantry, discarding ancient boxes of cereal, flour and sugar. He finally pulled out a box of garlic croutons that looked to be at least five years old. He shrugged and said, "This'll have to do."

"Make it work," said Dean, looking as if he were about to tip over.

Sam nodded and grabbed Dean, gently yet firmly hauling him back to the den. He deposited his brother onto the couch and then returned to the spell book and his pattern of salt, dumping the hair, nutmeg and daisy petals in the center. He opened the box of croutons and poured a few on top of the pile. Then he opened Dean's flask and poured the whiskey over everything, ignoring Dean's audible sigh of disgust.

"Alright," said Sam, glancing at Dean. "You ready for this?"

Dean fingered the iron knife in his pocket. "Not really."

"Good, neither am I," said Sam. He grabbed the Colt and set it next to him on the table. He tossed the demon killing knife to Dean. Then he picked up the spell book, ready to get summoning. "Here goes nothing," said Sam, using Dean's lighter to fire up the contents in the salt pattern. The ingredients blazed up in a quick flash as Sam read the summoning spell out loud.

The flame suddenly fizzled out and then all was still. The brothers exchanged glances.

"Maybe it was the croutons," offered Sam.

A beat passed and then there was clapping. Max Gibbons appeared sans wheelchair. "Bravo Sam Winchester, bravo. You figured it out."

Sam clamored for the Colt, but Max knocked it out of his hands, sending it flying across the room. "If you had just let things be, Sam, you could've walked out of here with half of the million dollars. You still could." She gave him a chilling smile.

Dean took the opportunity to go at her with the knife. Unfortunately, she anticipated the move and flung Dean out into the foyer, the knife flying out of his hand. "Sorry honey, the get out of jail free card doesn't apply to you. Hopefully, my little darling will make it quick and painless. Then again that does depend on you, doesn't it?"

She snapped her finger and Sam watched with horror as the burning man rose out of the floor. It grabbed a struggling Dean and dragged him out of sight. "Dean!" yelled Sam. He glared at Max. "Why him and not me?"

"You're Lucifer's vessel, Sam. I realized who you were after we met. I have no interest in making enemies. I run a mom and pop business down here. I just want to be left alone. Killing you would bring a lot of unnecessary attention on me. Plus it would almost certainly guarantee my death," said Max.

Sam gritted his teeth. It was times like these that he missed his powers. He knew it was wrong and he hated himself for thinking it, but it was the truth. If he used his powers, he and Dean would be out of this mess and be safe. But that wasn't an option. It could never be again. He wouldn't let it be. So, he had to use the next best thing, which was his own human wiles and prowess.

He glanced nonchalantly at the fallen knife out in the foyer and then took a deep breath, purposefully trying to relax himself and change his demeanor. "So you're really going to let me walk out of here, huh? Half a million bucks in my pocket?"

"Fortunately for you, Max Gibbons is a very rich lady. And I am a creature of my word. Half a million dollars for you to leave here alive and hush up about it. I've got a good thing going. It's like community service. I'm giving back to my kind by getting rid of your kind," said Max. "Plus, letting you go could help curry favor with Lucifer."

"I'm guessing that could be a real bright feather in your cap, huh?" said Sam, inching towards the foyer.

"Why yes," said Max.

Sam nodded and then looked away for a moment as if he was contemplating a monumental decision. He looked back at her, forlorn. "I'm guessing my brother is already dead…which, there's nothing I can really do about now. I might as well make it out of here alive, right? And with a little extra dough?"

Max smiled brightly. "I'm glad you see things my way, son."

"I'm just trying to be logical, here," said Sam as he got closer and closer to the knife.

"Very wise. These are war times we're living in. Sometimes you have to form unlikely alliances and practice a little restraint," said Max.

"Yes indeed, ma'am. Yes indeed," said Sam. He grabbed the knife and shot up, ready to stab the life out of the demon possessing Max Gibbons.

****

Dean felt helpless as he was dragged from the foyer and into the dining room, the door slamming shut behind him. He was unceremoniously thrown into the dining room table with such force it knocked the table back a few feet. Dean lay in a broken pile on the ground, stunned and starry eyed, oxygen a luxury. After he was able to greedily gulp in a few mouthfuls, his vision started to clear. The Uturu was standing over him. And he looked just like Sam.

"Hello Dean," said the spirit in Sam's voice.

But it wasn't Sam's tone or inflection. It was Lucifer's.

Dean's eyes made the mistake of meeting Lucifer's eyes and a wince shook through him in pure reflex. He quickly looked away as his stomach balled into a cramped, agony filled knot. Seeing Lucifer in Sam like this, even if he knew damn well it wasn't real, was exquisite torture for him. It was the absolute worst thing he could ever imagine happening. It was his biggest fear. It meant that not only had he failed in a hunting and saving the world capacity, it meant that he had also failed in the big brother capacity. But even more than that, it meant that Sam was gone. And the thought of that broke his heart. Sam was his brother and his best friend. He loved him more than anything. He always had and always would, no matter what happened. Seeing his body taken over, defaced by Lucifer, was like watching his brother get raped. It made him sick.

And it was in that instant that Dean suddenly realized he had to keep fighting. Because he would do anything in his power to prevent this moment from ever happening in real life. Not because it was his job or because he was supposed to save the world or because his dad told him to or because he was some kind of hero. It was because Dean truly loved his brother and would do anything to protect him. He hadn't sacrificed his life or gone through all the pain and loss and guilt and blame and responsibility just to walk away and let this evil son of a bitch take his own family away from him without a fight. Even if he lost Sammy in the end. Even if he lost the whole damn world. Even if he lost himself. He had to try. He had to keep trying.

"Cat got your tongue?" said Lucifer.

"We're gonna find a way to kill you," said Dean, his voice shaky, but his conviction clear. But he still couldn't look him in the eyes.

"That's it, son. Fall off the horse and get right back on," said Lucifer. "I admire your spunk. But you're not gonna kill me. We both know that."

"Do we? You gotta have an Achilles heel somewhere. We'll find it," said Dean, still not meeting Lucifer's eyes.

Lucifer picked up on this and put his head close to Dean's so he was forced to look him straight in the eyes. Sam's eyes. "I even smell like him, don't I?" said Lucifer.

Dean swallowed hard, trying to desperately to detach and see this situation for what it really was. This wasn't even Lucifer. It wasn't real. It didn't matter if he killed this thing. He wasn't really killing Sam. His brain knew it. But the rest of him didn't. He shook as his hand fumbled for the knife he had tucked in his waistband.

As if the Uturu sensed what he was up to, Lucifer's visage quickly changed. "Dean, wait," said Lucifer. Dean made the mistake of looking the thing in the eyes again and this time saw his brother looking back at him.

"Sammy?" said Dean, his voice choked with unshed tears.

"He tricked me Dean. I'm still in here. I'm still alive, bro. If you kill him, you'll kill me too," said Sam.

Dean hesitated pulling out the knife, his hand still shaking. "Sam'd want me to kill him if it ever got this far," he said, not knowing who he was trying to convince more, himself or Lucifer.

"Oh hell, you're probably right," said the Uturu, devil mask back in place. He flicked his wrist and Dean flew hard into the wall on the other side of the room. But he didn't fall to the ground. Instead, he stayed pinned to the wall like an insect.

"You should've made your move when you had the chance," said Lucifer. "Your love for your brother and your lack of sack to kill him is going to be the death of you."

Dean took in a shaky breath as he felt himself slide up the wall.

"I say we end this where it all began so long ago for you, Dean," said Lucifer. "In a blaze of fire on the ceiling."

Dean's back was suddenly flush against the ceiling. A second later, he felt a sharp clawing pain in his belly. It was like he was being ripped apart. He gasped as warm blood seeped out of him, dripping down onto the table and floor below.

"Any last words, Dean?" asked Lucifer. He made a poof motion with his hand and suddenly Dean felt the heat of flames pool around him.

****

Max realized what was coming about a second before it happened and tagged Sam hard, sending him sprawling out on the floor. He held onto the knife in spite of the whack, desperate not to let her get her hands on it. He tucked it protectively in the waistband of his jeans as he pounced again towards Max.

The demon retaliated by waving her hand, sending Sam into a wall. "I don't want to have to kill you, Sam. Believe me, I don't. But I will if I have to."

"No you won't," said Sam. He pulled the knife out of his pants and leapt towards her in an adrenaline fueled charge. He tackled her easily with his larger body and stabbed the knife into her chest. They both fell to the ground as the demon within Max lit up like a Christmas tree and then fizzled out.

****

Dean clutched a hand around his middle, the pain starting to numb, the fight seeping out of him along with his blood. Then he saw it. It was a temporary flash. As if the Uturu disappeared for a moment and then reappeared. Like the flicker of lights. Lucifer's face even balked for the briefest of milliseconds.

Dean's hand grappled for the knife. He pulled it out of his pocket and got his hand in a position of leverage. "Sorry Sammy," he whispered. Then he threw the knife at Lucifer. His brother's eyes widened in realization. And then the Uturu exploded into a pile of dust.

Dean lingered on the ceiling for a moment as a sob of relief escaped his lips. Then he fell to the ground, his feet using the table to break his fall. The wood crumbled under his weight and he sank to the floor. He curled into himself as tears trickled out of his eyes and down his cheeks. Then in a great burst, the tears poured out of him, his whole body shaking, as the events of the last few weeks…hell of the last few years…spewed out of his heart and soul in a huge rush of release.

****

Sam sighed in relief and pulled the knife out of Max. She was gone. She lay on the floor like a withered old woman, her eyes open and focused dead on the ceiling.

"Sorry Max," said Sam. He reached down and closed her eyes with his hand. Then he hurried over to the dining room door, his heart pounding in fear, dreading what he might find on the other side. There was silence on the other side and he didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing. He cautiously opened the door. "Dean?"

He saw Dean crumpled on the floor amongst the shattered table, blood smears on the wood around him. "Dean!" he said in a concerned tone as he stepped closer to his brother. He realized Dean was shaking like a leaf. "You alright man?"

He was taken aback as Dean put his hand out as if to shield himself. It was then that Sam realized his brother was crying.

"Hey," he said softly as he approached Dean with more caution, trying not to startle him or overwhelm him. "It's over Dean. It's all over."

He knelt down next to his brother and gently put a hand on his quivering back. Dean flinched and then seemed to accept the touch. Sam carefully pulled Dean into an embrace, taking care to never expose his brother's face. Instead, he simply covered Dean's body with his own. Dean tensed for a moment, the shaking stopped, a hitch of tears in his breath. "It's okay, bro," whispered Sam. He felt Dean relax and then the shaking started up again as Sam felt his shirt dampen with his brother's tears. Sam held on to his brother for dear life, giving him all of the strength and comfort that he had inside himself to give. His brother deserved it all. And so much more.

TBC


	6. Tag

**Tag**

**See first part for details…**

**Thanks so much for reading and a special thanks for the reviews/story alerts/favorites. This was a really fun and challenging story to write. That Dean Winchester. And Sammy too. Gotta love our boys! Enjoy the last part!**

Dean felt like he was either Superman flying through the air or Ariel the Mermaid sailing through the water on a fin. He cracked opened an eye and realized he was neither. He was sprawled out in the backseat of the Impala as it sped, or well, as close to speeding as his brother would get, down the highway. The slight vibration of the moving car was soothing. He felt at peace for a moment, not even minding that his brother was driving his car.

And then reality hit him. Five seconds and he was up to bat. Everything came flooding back. Everything. The night before. The Uturu. The last few weeks. Jo, Ellen, Lucifer, vessels, the apocalypse, angels, his mom, his dad, his brother, save the cheerleader, save the world. But it was different today. The pain didn't seem quite as raw or as sharp. It didn't twist around in his brain until it was holding him hostage. It was simply there. And he felt like, maybe, just maybe he could deal with it or, at the very least, not spend every waking moment trying to find a way to drown it out.

"Sammy," he murmured as he struggled to sit up. Very, very bad idea. He cried out as his stomach felt like it was about to rip open. Not to mention that the rest of him felt like it had been hit by a truck. Or two.

"Whoa, easy," said Sam from up front.

Dean managed to get about halfway up the seat and then gave up, staying slumped where he was, not wanting to move in either direction. He was able to eye Sam in the rearview mirror. "Where are we?" he asked as he brought his now slinged up arm to rest against his torn stomach. His fingers detected through his shirt bandages over the tender area of his belly.

"About a half hour out from Sarasota. Taking you to a hospital in the next town over," said Sam, his eyes gazing at him in the rearview mirror. "Figured you wanna get a little distance from Holmes Point."

Sam was giving him the I'm checking on you and want to ask you if you're okay, but I won't because you'll just say your fine look. Dean couldn't handle anymore chick flick moments. He figured he'd filled his quota for the next five to fifty years. But he still appreciated the concern, even if he'd never be able to say it. "Dude, I don't need the hospital," said Dean, meeting Sam's eyes briefly and giving him the thank you glance, not only for being there and saving him, but for also having the sense not to mention any of it. "Think you patched me up pretty good here, Sammy Nightingale."

"Dean, you fell down a flight of stairs. You have a foot long gash in your stomach. You're getting checked out," said Sam.

"Whatever bitch," said Dean.

"Jerk," replied Sam.

Dean had to smile. It had been such a long time since they had done that. It felt good. Like the old days. It gave him hope. Or at least, the memory of it.

He shut his eyes for a moment, noticing for the first time the blast of pansy sounding college rock pouring out of his speakers. His eyes shot open. "What the hell kind of music you poisoning my speakers with man?"

"Hey, I gave up a half a million bucks for your sorry ass. I get to pick the music," said Sam, smirking at him in the reflection of the mirror.

"That's no way to treat your elders, son," said Dean.

"Jackass," said Sam. There were a few moments of silence. Then Sam gazed intently at him in the mirror. "So…you ah…you disappointed the million was all a trick? Can't go off to the islands like you wanted…you know?"

Dean's eyes met Sam's in the mirror again, knowing full well what his brother was really asking. "I don't know, man. The more I think about it, what the hell am I gonna do on an island? After two days I'd be bored out of my mind. Not to mention, I would've banged all the native girls by then anyway."

"So…that means…you're still in it?" asked Sam nonchalantly.

"I ain't ever backed down from a fight before. Why would I start now?" said Dean firmly.

Sam eyed him with a look of pride and then a nod of acknowledgment.

Dean eyed his brother intensely and returned the nod. Then he sank back against the seat, his eyes closing once again. "Seriously bro, the music…you're killing me here."

The radio shut off and then he heard the clamor of cassette tapes. He couldn't help but smile. A moment later, AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill blasted like a rocket through the stereo speakers.

"That better?" shouted Sam.

Dean gave the thumbs up with his good hand. "This'll do."

He sank back further into the seat, letting the music overtake him as his brother gunned the Impala down the highway.

That's All Folks!


End file.
